


You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

by TheFearsomeJabberwock



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Headcanon Tweaks, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragonborn!Sissel, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFearsomeJabberwock/pseuds/TheFearsomeJabberwock
Summary: “First!” Sissel snapped, sticking a finger in the Dunmer’s face. “You will teach me how to live in the wilds! You will teach me everything you know so that I can grow strong and take care of myself!” She sucked in a breath, her brows stitching together as she scanned his face. His smile was insufferable, but she was determined. “Second! You will not let any harm come to me! And do no harm to me!” She put on her best brave face, a fire burning in the pit of her belly. It was fed by her despair, by her disappointment, and by her anger. “And third!” She proclaimed, and she felt the energy crackle through her. His eyes went wide for a moment, and she felt the static of uncontrolled magic dance across her skin. “You’ll burn this wretched place to the ground!”“Deal.” The word rolled out of his mouth like oil.Oh gods… What had she done?--Sissel dreams of freedom, dragons, and of a Dunmer with a voice of ash and a mouth full of flames...but is he really the hero Skyrim needs? Is he even a hero at all?
Kudos: 4





	You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

“You could use a buddy~” His voice was coarse, like the brittle ash of a campfire and his eyes were red as the flame that made its home there. His teeth were sharp- sharpened?- to dangerous points, like a wolf looking at its next dinner. “Don’t you want a pal~?” His thick accent wrapped around every word, distorting and warping them until they were just barely recognizable.

The worst thing was that she was considering it.

“Come on kid, it ain’t like no one here treats you right,” He rasped, and she found herself staring at his mouth, at those sharp teeth. His pointed tongue flicked out and wet his lips before they stretched into a wide smile that split his face. “I’ve been watching, it’s all I can do as long as I’m stuck here like this,” He tilted his head, those eyes locked on her. “They don’t respect you, they don’t care, you’re practically invisible,” She didn’t move, and neither did he… not that he could. “All you gotta do is unlock these...”

He was in the stocks, his thick fur cloak trying to explode out the hole his neck was trapped in like he was a vulture. For all she knew, he could have been. He had been here for over a day and a half now, first for excessive drunkenness, and then for stolen goods found when they emptied his pockets. He still had a day and a half left in his original sentence, and that had been extended to four for the foul language he hurled at poor Jouane as the guards shoved the Dunmer into the restraints.

Sissel was eleven days past fourteen, the younger of twins. She was the twin that killed her mother, something her father seemed to derive sick joy from reminding her of. This was second only to the pleasure he derived from getting thoroughly drunk and beating his daughters. Sissel had the bruises to prove that, and a fading black eye. Britte, Sissel’s sister, was no better. She seemed to delight in following in her father’s exact footsteps.

But was Sissel desperate enough for change to make a deal with a bandit?

“Come on, a little snicker snack and off goes the s’wit’s head.” He purred, and Sissel studied his face. He had a scar that ran over his eye, an old wound that must have just missed considering he seemed to have full faculty of both eyes. His nose was crooked, obviously having been broken at least twice, and now that she watched him talk, she could see he was missing some teeth. “Come oooon kid, if you don’t wanna see the blood I got poison in my bag that’d work just as well~”

Sissel was jostled out of her thoughts. She looked around, making sure the street was as empty as it seemed, it was. She shook her head and looked the Dunmer up and down. Her nose wrinkled and she put her hands on her hips. “Why would I need your help to poison them? I already make their food. If I wanted them dead, they would be.” She saw his face go blank. His mouth pulled into a thin line and he hummed. Well, she did, but she didn’t. Sissel was kind of afraid to get that kind of blood on her hands, and besides that… It was her father and her sister. They were all she had. Yeah, her life was terrible- but surely it wasn’t _that_ terrible… She was certain that others in the world had it far worse than she did. Her father had told her as much. 

“Ok, ok, ok, I get it, I get it, I know, but! Consider-” He grunted and muttered something in another language, and Sissel watched him. “Together we could just kill them-”

“No!” Sissel snapped sharply, crossing her arms.

He let out a distressed noise and his feet scuffed the stone the stocks were driven into. “Oh come on! I could just-” He was watching her face and must have realized the angle he was using was not going to work, “Or you know, you could let me out and then just leave. It ain’t like you’d be missed...”

She turned on her heel towards home, quickening her pace to put some distance between her and the bandit. She didn’t have to listen to this, plus it wasn’t like he could follow her. She’d initially been fascinated by the elf, but now she had a sort of disgust tumbling around in her gut. It wasn’t often that Rorikstead got visitors, and certainly not ones like him. But he was foul... for the most part. He smelled like dried piss and sour mead, and he had so much blood crusted in his hair that she wasn’t sure the true color of it. It stood straight up from his head- she was almost sure that was an intentional choice. But he had called out to her because he noticed her crying on the steps of the inn- He’d asked if she was alright…

\---

The first time she saw him, it was as soon as he’d entered town. She had been pulling potatoes out of the cold hard ground. She had dirt shoved so far up her nails she could feel the nail beds ache. She looked up as he went past, and her blue eyes went wide.

Lately she had been having dreams; of fire, of ice, of ash. She had dreams of a man with features sharp and teeth even sharper. She dreamt of the rasp of his voice, and the fire in his red, glowing eyes. She could see wings cold, icy, and mouths full of fire and pain. She saw great beasts descending on the land, The Voice on their lips and the world warping to their will.

And she saw him doing the same. Saving the world, saving them all. 

She had stood up and went to follow, but not before the nagging voice in her mind reminded her to check for her family. She knew the punishments for shirking her chores would be severe, but the risk of losing the man who had been haunting her dreams for an entire month would be far worse. She gathered her dirty skirts and made her way through the gate, closing the creaking metal slowly as to not alert her napping father. 

She’d followed the elf to the smithy, and then to the general store. She tried to formulate how she’d ask him to whisk her away, how she’d beg and plead-

And then her sister found her. 

“You useless little wretch! You didn’t bother finishing the potatoes before going and stalking visitors like the creepy little dragur you are!” Her sister hissed, but the insults rolled off of her like water. She’d found the man who’d been haunting her dreams, and nothing was going to stop her from following her destiny! That was, until her sister grabbed her by the braids and pulled her all but kicking and screaming back to the house.

Sissel did not like remembering that night. She did not care to recall the beatings by the fireside, or the words slung her way meaning to cut to the bone, nor did she care to remember the grain of the floor- not that she had any choice in how she had memorized the patterns of the wood she was so accustomed to lying against in a broken heap.

\---

Sissel shook the memory out of her head, pushing a fist into her eye to try and stem the tears. She opened and closed the gate to her father’s property behind her, following the uneven cobblestones up to the house.

The man she’d dreamt of was nothing more than a piss-soaked drunk. So much for fate. So much for that infernal “gift” Jouane claimed she had. Yeah, sure, she could summon a tiny flame in her hands and make sparks dance from her fingers, and sure sometimes she could predict disaster before it hit. But what good was that for picking vegetables or avoiding a beating?

“Stupid girl! Where have you been?” Her father snapped and Sissel flinched to attention. “You forgot to bring the keg back didn’t you? You useless little-” Sissel started to tune him out, her mind assuming the defensive stance it had developed to cope, yet her hands were shaking. Maybe she ought to take the Dunmer up on his offer after all. Her mind started to wander and she imagined nights under the stars, in the woods, by the Karth river. She imagined adventures and rescues and... then she remembered the Dunmer was a bandit. 

But that had its own romance to it, didn’t it?

“Are you even listening?!” Her father snarled and she looked up at the bear of a man. He was looming over her, teeth bared. “You just can’t keep your stupid little head out of the clouds can you?” He asked as his lips curled over blunt teeth. “I’ll repeat, one last time, and if I have to say it again I’ll beat you into next Middas!”

“Yes, father.”

That was it. She was going to poison him. She’d poison him and then flee to Whiterun. There she could get a job as a farmhand and work on developing her magic until she was able to support herself by adventuring. She didn’t need a bandit, she could do it on her own! 

He’d demanded that she return and fetch his order of mead from the tavern, then come home and finish the dinner that her sister had started in the kitchen. Easy enough… and close enough to the chest that held the Dunmer’s belongings. He’d mentioned he had poison in there, she’d use that. She knew where her mother’s old traveling robes were, and she had the sword that Jouane had gifted her after her father had caught on to their unapproved weekly magic lessons. Sissel wasn’t sure what was worse- her father’s rank breath, or how he spat all over her mentor when he found out his daughter had learned how to read. No child of his had magic or needed education apparently. That had been the end of her lessons, and that meant Sissel had nothing left for her in this town.

She closed the door behind her and followed the path by muscle memory alone. It was a short walk to the road, where lanterns were being lit by the village light-keeper. The sun was sinking low behind the Druadach Mountains. The first of the stars were starting to peek out from the clearing cloud cover. It was a short walk up the road, and past the stocks, to Frostfruit Inn. She pointedly ignored the Dunmer that was calling out to her. 

She slid the coins across the counter. A few words passed between her and the innkeep, but nothing of substance. The village had learned not to ask about the injuries that the girls sustained. Was Sissel a little bitter that no one was going to do anything about it? Maybe. Maybe she was. Maybe that was why she found the nerve to take things into her own hands?

The keg was heavy, but it was nothing she wasn’t used to hauling, her father could go through one of them in three days. She stopped near the Dunmer, setting the keg down on the stones. She opened the chest that held his belongings, it wasn’t like the people of such a small town bothered to lock such things. Everyone knew everyone, and honestly no one cared if the crass elf lost his stuff. She took her time looking over the multi-colored bottles of swirling liquid she found, comparing the ones she couldn’t easily identify. 

“Ay! What are you doin- don’t you go through my crap! You don’t know the shit I got in there!” He growled as he fought against his wooden binds. Sissel paid him no mind and held up a little purple bottle. It had a swirling liquid inside that seemed almost to glitter in the light of the street lamps. She pocketed it and its twin, just in case. She wasn’t sure of dosage, but two vials ought to have been enough to do her father in. She shut the lid on the chest and spared the elf a glance. 

She picked back up the keg and stepped back into the road, pausing a moment to consider the Dunmer. He was supposed to be some sort of hero. For pity’s sake.

He smiled, that wide sharp smile of his. “Playin’ hard huh? Gonna just poison them yourself? Color me impressed,” She remained silent, which he took as a sign to continue, “If you don’t want blood on your hands you couuuld just grab the key and let me do the dirty work~”

“Just because I am young and female that does not make me an easy mark!” She informed him, and his smile seemed to only get wider. “I let you out? You’re gonna just kill me and run. You have no reason to help me, and no honor to bind you.”

“Oh~ You wound me!” He crooned in a mocking tone, miming a fainting maiden - as best as someone locked in a stockade could, Sissel supposed. The facade didn’t last long, and was punctuated by a hacking laugh clawing its way out of his throat. “I might be dead to my people, but I sure as Oblivion still have my honor,” Sissel tilted her head as he spoke, her blue eyes narrowing. “You have my word, on my ancestors, that I will not harm a single hair on your hea-”

“So you’ll pluck a single hair of mine and toss it away, the single hair you won’t harm? What happens to the rest of me then?” She asked, one eyebrow climbing. “I’ve been swimming with slaughterfish my whole life Dunmer, I’m not so stupid as to jump into the mouth of a bear to escape that.” This pulled another laugh out of him, and he ran his tongue over his teeth. 

“You’re a clever sort,” His eyes were crinkled, and if Sissel didn’t know better, it was in amusement. “Alright, how about this? On my word, I will not harm you in any way, shape, or form- IF you let me out.” He spoke each word clearly and deliberately, emphasising that he was taking this seriously. She thought about it for a moment, even tapping her lip with a finger. “Come oooon~ You even got yourself a solid plan B here girl, I could just burn it all to the ground for you- keep your hands clean and let you go free.” 

She mused on his words a moment longer. Bolstered by a rush of adrenaline-fuelled confidence at the thought of freedom from her suffering suddenly feeling so tangible, she responded in an almost playful tone, “I’ll think about your offer,” She told him, “‘Letcha know.” She turned away, followed by his cackling. It crawled up her spine and skittered under her skin. He was right. She could just let him take the fall for killing them. She could easily feign innocence and say that he promised her he wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

But no, Sissel honestly wanted the satisfaction of killing her father herself. She needed it.

To no one’s surprise- least of all Sissel’s- dinner was not near so done as her father had suggested earlier, Britte having shirked yet another chore and pushing the work onto her. It didn’t matter, she wasted no time cooking a hearty stew and pouring her little vials into her father’s bowl. Her father had already drunk himself half into the grave by the time the soup was served so hopefully the poison would have less work to do, and maybe lead people to assume he finally had sung himself a mead lullaby. 

Sissel went to her room without dinner and closed the door. She heard her sister slam her own bedroom door, and then all that was left was her father in the other room. As soon as she was sure the noise wouldn’t be noticed, she went to work peeling up the loose floorboard in the middle of her room. She lifted out a wrapped bundle- the sword Jouane had gifted her. That went to her bed, resting on the old threadbare quilt. She also went to her dresser and changed into her mother’s old traveling robes. They were red, like the blood that would now cover her hands. The robes would work as well as anything else Sissel figured. When she put them on, they were just too big, but it was nothing a belt couldn’t fix. She pulled the mantle around her shoulders and pulled the hood up around her hair. She frowned as she tried to arrange her thick blonde hair within the hood comfortably. It was a pain, but she’d have to deal with it for a while, at least until she left Rorikstead.

If she was found out, she’d be known as a kin killer, and that stung a little bit. But he deserved it. He deserved it more than Sissel deserved the beatings, and more than the Dunmer deserved to be locked up in the stocks. If someone had intervened, perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this. Perhaps if one of their neighbors had a spine, or if the guards didn’t figure it was none of their business... Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Nothing but wishful thinking.

She struggled for a moment setting the sheath on her belt, unfamiliar with the weight of the sword on her hip. She’d get used to it, she’d probably have to use it at any rate. Her father was merely going to be the first to die. Out in the wilderness of Skyrim countless bandits and monsters lived and died by the blade. She pulled the sword out, testing the length. She’d never gotten to the blade lessons Jouane had promised, but that was alright. It seemed straightforward enough, put the pointy bit into the bad guy. She slid the sword back into the sheath before grabbing her skinning knife, tucking that into her boot just in case. She put her hands on her hip, sucking in a breath. She was as ready as she’d ever be. 

Then she heard laughter. She frowned and looked to her door. Those were not sounds of a painful, agonizing, well-deserved death. Those were not the sounds of blood on her hands, those were the sounds of revelry and the sound of her father... Singing?! She narrowed her eyes and pushed the door open ever so slightly, the light from the fire illuminating a strip of her face. Her sister was dancing, a mug of mead in hand, and her father was singing and playing drums on overturned pans. They were having a grand time, and he was certainly not dying and choking and-

Sissel’s mouth pulled into a line, tears welling up in her eyes and static dancing across her skin. 

She just wanted to be free. She just wanted her family dead and all ties to this horrible little town to be gone. She wanted to start a new life where she didn’t have to appease those two trolls to keep from getting hit. She closed the door and put her back to it, sliding down and crying into her hands. She hiccuped and sniffled and sucked in another breath. She reached into her hood and gripped and tore at her hair, the pain grounding her. 

She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t spend another night here, her family dead or not. She couldn’t keep living like this.

Sissel couldn’t take it, and by the Nine Divines she had a Plan B.

She threw open her door and stepped into the light. Her sister laughed obnoxiously from her perch on the table, and her father poured himself another cup of mead. He was supposed to be dead or dying, choking on spit and foam. But he wasn’t. They were making merry, they were making merry and celebrating like something good had happened. The two of them ignored her presence as if she was invisible, as if she was nothing. Good, it would make the next steps easier. She would not botch her second attempt, not if the Dunmer was really a man of his word. 

She threw open the door to the cottage, and did not bother to close it behind her. She did the same to the gate.

The cobbles were uneven, but she’d grown up on them. She didn’t need a torch to get to the main road in the dark, her hands were glowing and crackling with enough energized emotion she could see just fine. She needed no help to get to the stocks, not to where he was waiting for her.

He had a smile on his lips. 

She made her way wordlessly past him, to where the chest was, where the key to the stocks was stored in a little lockbox. A little unlocked lockbox. Gods be damned Jouane was too trusting. She pulled out the key and sucked in a breath. 

His voice was low, dangerous, even as the words tumbled fast out of his mouth. “I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind, takin’ me up on my offe-” 

“First!” Sissel snapped, sticking a finger in the Dunmer’s face. “You will teach me how to live in the wilds! You will teach me everything you know so that I can grow strong and take care of myself!” She sucked in a breath, her brows stitching together as she scanned his face. His smile was insufferable, but she was determined. “Second! You will not let any harm come to me! And do no harm to me!” She put on her best brave face, a fire burning in the pit of her belly. It was fed by her despair, by her disappointment, and by her anger. “And third!” She proclaimed, and she felt the energy crackle through her. His eyes went wide for a moment, and she felt the static of uncontrolled magic dance across her skin. “You’ll burn this wretched place to the ground!” 

“Deal.” The word rolled out of his mouth like oil.

Sissel unlocked the stocks, struggling for a moment to lift the heavy timber. The Dunmer extracted himself, rubbing his throat before he rolled his neck to a chorus of cracks. Sissel was breathless, her eyes going wide as he stretched up to his full height. He was tall, taller than any man she had ever met. He towered over her, like a shadow in the night with two glowing, red pin pricks for eyes. Had she made a deal with Clavicus Vile? Had she unleashed some sort of Daedra prince on the town in her rage? 

“I’m a man of my word, kid.” He pulled one of his gloves off and put his thick fingers to his mouth. Sissel winced and covered her ears at the shrill whistle that cut through the air. Within seconds she heard the whooping, the war cries, the screams that echoed off the hills in the night.

Oh gods… What had she done?

It was like a portal to Oblivion had opened right outside of town, the way the bandits descended. Rorikstead didn’t have a wall, it had never needed one before. But his bandits would make sure that the Jarl of the hold would spend the funds to set one up after they were done. Had she known he was anything more than a common bandit she- He kicked open the chest that held his things, collecting his belongings as guardsmen started to come out of their houses. The Dunmer’s rank was in the way he held himself, from the fancy furs he wore, and the absolutely massive sword he carried.

Then he strapped a shield to his arm, and rolled his shoulders. His face contorted as he stretched and before Sissel had even realized someone was there, he had a guardsman skewered on his blade. He lifted the man into the air as if he weighed nothing, then let the body drop. Sissel couldn’t stop staring at the guard, curling around his violent gut wound and breathing his last.

And to think, before this she had thought she was prepared to have blood on her hands. 

“Come on, kid!” The Dunmer growled, grabbing her by her arm and pulling her forward. She winced and stumbled along behind him. “Don’t freeze up on me now, you’re the one who wanted the town to burn!” She looked up and saw that sharp smile, those red eyes locked on her. “You chose this, remember that.” It wasn’t like any of these poor, sorry shits ever cared for her, save Jouane- and even then he never had the balls to stand up to her father. None of them ever said a kind word, they never checked on her, they never-

That’s right. They never. They never did anything.

The chaos around her was what she’d imagined Oblivion must have been like. There weren’t many of the bandits, but the town had been caught off guard. To be honest, the guardsmen were fat and lazy- no one ever touched the little hamlet that was so close to Whiterun- being prepared wouldn’t have made much of a difference. 

She sucked in a breath, her eyes locked on how the cobbles moved under her feet. Her boots were supple leather, they’d hold up well on the road at least. They had little bits of embossing, according to Jouane her mother had been very talented with textiles. She was lucky to have her mother’s traveling robes. The Dunmer tossed her aside and she landed on her ass on the cobbles. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words died in her throat as her wide eyes fell on the sight before her.. 

“Woah...”

The Dunmer had a bottle of some sort of wine in hand and he spewed it by the mouthful into a pilfered lit torch. She watched him breathe fire in the face of a guard before bashing a second in the face with his shield. She flinched away as he beat the poor bastard down repeatedly, not bothering with his blade when the edge of the steel disk would do. She heard a final snap and the blood splattered Dunmer stood up, his eyes flicking up to the blazing scene that lay behind them.. 

Rorikstead was in flames. The screaming was even louder now as more of the village folk were put to the blade, and the bandits had spilled out into the streets with victims. Some people fought back, but there was too little time to prepare for the slaughter, and the people of Rorikstead did not have the same sort of thirst for blood that these brigands had. The elf paused as she pulled away, her eyes locked on the bloody carnage. She witnessed people she knew, dead or dying. She didn’t see Jouane among them, nor did she see her family. It couldn’t be helped, she supposed. 

“Isn’t it what you wanted? Deep down?” He asked, and she looked up at him for a second before looking away. It was. But she didn’t want to admit it out loud. Despite that though, as she looked back up at the burning village, she felt nothing. No good, no ill… Nothing. She heard the plates of his armor shift, followed by his rough voice “If you don’t have the stomach for it, I can drop you off at some other sad little hamlet-”

“No. I asked for this,” She cut him off as she got up, her eyes still locked on the flames. “I asked for this.” She said again, as if solidifying it in her mind. She didn’t have to look at the elf to know he was smiling ear to ear. 

“Ain’t that a beautiful sound? The crackle of flame and the warm, slick screams of the dying?” He asked her as he pulled her along the road. He no longer had her by the upper arm, he was holding her hand and she was a little mesmerized by how warm and solid his grasp was. “Probably ought to have commanded my boys to raid the inn, ain’t had a drink in days...” he sounded absentminded as the town died around him. 

Sissel looked up at him, and she wondered now if her dreams had really foretold that he would be a hero... Perhaps she had jumped to her own conclusion, perhaps, he was the villain. 

He led Sissel out of the town, and soon she noticed that his men were following. But they weren’t all men, there were some women among them. That was promising, Sissel thought to herself.. At first, they were walking, but as the Rorikstead guard finally organized, Sissel was pulled along into a frantic chase across the Whiterun tundra. She kept stumbling in the dark of the night, until eventually the Dunmer just scooped her up and held her like a child. She would have been insulted, if not for the fact she had just felt a twinge of pain in her ankle. That, and his long legs carried them much faster then her own.

The group lost their pursuers, though, to the guard’s credit they kept up the chase for what felt like hours. The time dragged on and on for Sissel as she huddled in the dark, trying to make herself as small and unburdensome as possible for the elf. She felt like she was suspended in the void, the only grounding force being the Dunmer’s arms around her,the cold metal of his steel breastplate... and that awful smell of piss and sour mead, now freshly mixed with blood. 

When they stopped, all of his bandits were panting hard, and he sounded like he couldn’t breathe. He set her down and she looked up at his face. He turned away from her and coughed, sucking in breath after breath. He stumbled over to a fallen pillar and plopped down, turning his head towards the sky.

“Are you... Alright?” Sissel asked as she moved towards him. She was hesitant, they had a deal to be sure, but she had no idea if he would actually keep his word. Even while sitting, he looked at her like a looming shadow,merely two red pinpricks in a shroud of darkness. She saw him nod, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“What’s with the kid?” One of the bandits asked, gesturing towards Sissel. He was a massive Orc, with two tusks jutting out from his mouth on either side. His tusks alone looked bigger than Sissel’s forearm. 

“Made a deal,” The Dunmer rasped, fumbling around in the depths of his cloak. He pulled a waterskin out and took a deep swig from the flask. “Wants to be a bandit.”

“This soft little thing?” A Bosmer woman asked, tilting her head. Her eyes looked like the Dunmer’s, but gold instead of red. She was closer than Sissel was comfortable with, and so she stepped away. This did not deter the Bosmer however, who just moved back into Sissel’s personal space. “Oh, she’s gonna die for sure.”

“Mmm,” The dunmer responded with a displeased hum, which made Sissel snap her gaze over to him. “Not if I have anything to say ‘bout it.” His words jumbled together slightly, but that only drew a chuckle from the other bandits in the group. Sissel moved closer to the Dunmer, putting him between herself and his bandits. “She’s my new protege,” He elaborated with a grandiose gesture. “I swore on my honor.”

“Oh here we go,” A Nord woman groaned, shaking her head as she leaned against another ruined pillar. “So we’re taking her to Cyrodil then?”

“Cyrodil?” Sissel asked, and the Dunmer stretched out his long legs. “What’s in Cyrodil?” 

The Dunmer regarded her, and she saw his eyes narrow in the darkness. “Warm weather, no war, soft little city s’wits ripe for picking,” He tilted his head, running a hand through his grungy mohawk. “What’s not to like?” Sissel rubbed her arms and swallowed down her fear. She chose this. She had made her decision, and burned down her home to cement it. She looked to the rag tag group, seven total, and then herself and the Dunmer. 

There was the Orc, who was sitting with his back against the wall. He was a massive brute, and had no hair. Next was the Bosmer woman, who had crawled up on the ruins and was keeping watch with narrowed eyes. The Nord woman was almost as big as the Orc, and her hair was light. There were two Khajiit- twins if Sissel had to guess, considering what she could make out of them was mirrored between the two- A human, dressed in full plate, their identity otherwise completely indiscernible, and a Breton who appeared to keep to themselves, with a book in one hand and a small lantern in the other made up the last of the little group. 

Sissel sat down next to the Dunmer, who offered his waterskin. She took it, sniffing the top. It seemed to be water, so she took a long drink. She handed it back and it vanished into the void that was within the heavy furs of his cloak.

“Are we safe?” He asked one of the others, his voice rough over the silent night air. 

“No, they’re still looking. You can see their torches on the plains now that they’ve put out the fires.” The Bosmer responded, and that prompted the Dunmer to grunt. He pushed himself up to his feet, and Sissel could hear how his joints creaked. “I suggest we move further south, once we get to Gjukar we will be able to set up a camp.”

“Noted.” The Dunmer said nothing more, turning to Sissel and motioning for her to follow. She got up, watching as the rest of the group followed suit. 

“Lesson one, when someone is after you, you don’t light a fire,” This struck Sissel as a little pointed because of how the Dunmer growled it at the Breton. The man was still trying to read as he walked, but hastily extinguished his lantern in response to the Dunmer’s jab. He returned to attempting to read his book, this time squinting by moonlight. “It is the first way your enemies will find you. Hide instead in the ashes and beyond the embers.”

“In the ashes?” Sissel asked, stepping quickly to keep up with the Dunmer’s pace. The Bosmer was leading them, keeping them to the road now. 

“Eet’s a turn of phrase he likes to use.” One of the Khajiiti said, their accent draping over the words like a lazy river current. It was far more pleasant to listen to then the Dunmer’s rough rasp. “Ee’s an Ash Elf, one of the Dunmer from the Morrowind Heartland.” 

“Barely,” The Dunmer responded, his gaze shifting to the cat. “I was raised in Skyrim, albeit in isolation by an Ashclan,” He elaborated, motioning with his hands, “I grew up playing in the sulfur pools of the Eastmarch, blissfully ignorant of the snow-apes and their savage ways.”

“Oho, this snow-ape will piss on your corpse Xantos, you keep talkin’ like that.” The Nord snarled. Then she laughed heartily. The Dunmer responded in turn, apparently in on some sort of joke. 

Xantos...

Xantos... It bounced around in her head. A better name than ‘The Dunmer’ by far, and it made the magic in her veins tingle and the visions of wings of fire and ash dance behind her vision again. The bandits she found herself walking beside kept bantering quietly among themselves, and Sissel found the time seemed to pass quicker. The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time the group stopped, and Sissel was sure she’d drop dead of exhaustion. 

She sat down on a cold stone and rubbed her ankle. Her feet had gone numb a ways back, and her hands felt colder than ice from the mountains. She pulled her knees to her chest and her mouth pulled in a line as she watched the bandits go straight into setting up a camp. She sucked in a breath, stretching back out and standing up. She rubbed her arms and made her way over to the firepit, where the Nord had stacked up some wood and was struggling to get the damp wood to light with a strike stone. 

“Here, let me help.” Sissel whispered, crouching down. She focused on her palm, drawing on the rage and anger that lingered below the surface. Fire had always come so easy to her, followed only by sparks. Jouane had said he was surprised, he’d said fire was controlled by rage, while electricity was just pure emotion. He’d had no idea the stores of rage Sissel kept within.

How many times had her sister pulled on her braids? Shoved her into the mud? Shirked off her chores and forced Sissel to take on twice as much work?

Too many.

Sissel’s palm lit up, a small fire dancing between her fingers. She stuck her hand into the wood pile, waiting a moment until she was sure it had dried out enough to light. When it sparked, she pulled her hand away and warmed her fingers by the little flickers that were climbing up the wood.

“Xantos, your little pet can do magic! Did you know that?” The Nord called out, and Sissel looked up. Suddenly all eyes were on her and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to melt into the ground like the snow around the newly burning fire. She looked to the Dunmer, whose face was split in two by a wide smile. The fire in front of her had really started to catch, and so Sissel moved back slightly.

“Delightful.” Xantos spoke, and that seemed to be all he had to say on the matter. Sissel wondered if perhaps he would teach her some sort of old Dunmeri magic. As she mused, the camp went back to what they were doing, and before she knew it they had a camp with several tents. The Orc dropped a cook pot into the fire, his pack against a nearby rock. The Bosmer was on watch again, perched on one of Gjukar’s tall pillars and swinging her leg. 

Sissel rubbed her face and felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Xantos, who motioned towards a tent. 

“Rest. I’ll wake you when food is done.” He told her. She looked up at him, studying his face in the rosy morning sunlight. It smoothed out the wrinkles that ran down his face, made him look almost kindly. His massive fur mantle still made him look a little bit like a vulture, but now he seemed much less malicious. Despite the fresh memories of violent murder and the still burning embers of her previous life he had left in their wake, she felt... Safe. 

“Ok,” Sissel whispered, getting up. She looked up at the elf one more time. “I’m... Sissel, by the way.”

“Xantos. Xantos of the Ashborn.” 


End file.
